Lord Dangerous

by Gayle Eden

  Trevon also found himself lying in his chambers, drinking whiskey, when he wanted nothing more than to go to her, and drive his sex into her until neither of them could move. The reason that was so surprising, was tangled in his past and, present. He had not fanaticized about a woman, ever. In addition, he had not wanted in quite that way before—not fixated on a particular woman. He deliberately did not allow himself to dig too deep into the whys. It could be more than the physical. In fact, it had to be. And that kind of thinking would open him up to things he could not feel and survive. To survive, one had to distance themselves to some extent. And, where women were concerned, he was always distant.

  He intended to stick to the limits, adhere to his rules. The conditions he had sought a wife under and one that his friend, Rane, knew as well, mattered more to him than heirs or bloodlines, or anything else.

  Rane prodded him to answer that ridiculous letter from Mary Emberton Matherly, and it was Rane who investigated the family.

  Not for the first time did Trevon suspect his friend would never get over a certain amount of guilt from the past. Although, he had assured him many years ago when they closed the subject that he was in no way culpable.

  Over the long years, the military, their friendship, Trevon had observed that as black as that incident colored his world, it also affected Rane’s. Perhaps, that was not so unexpected. By the time he’d joined the navy, Rane was on his own, and had little, save instinct. It served himself, and England, well. Maybry became something of a legend among the officers—taking on more and more reckless challenges.

  He could not say that after they were out, things changed much. He was hell bent on restoring his own inheritance, and had long since been dubbed arrogant, detached, and ruthless, when confronted. Until he learned to control his reactions, Trevon was aware he’d brawled, dueled, and had little mercy on those who betrayed or provoked him. Other than Rane, he often sensed a disconnect, and distrusting instinct towards others—that ultimately proved true. Moreover, Rotherham suspected Rane remained the only one who understood him, because of their past.

  He particularly loathed the first few years in London, spending his nights in hells, and evenings tolerating the hypocrisy at the clubs among his peers. Disdained as most out of pocket or non-toad eating lords were, they unleashed their usual derision and insults on the wrong man when directed at Rotherham. Trevon discovered their dirty little secrets, their sadistic clubs, and deviant abuses, and when confronted or insulted, he openly spoke them. Which of course, led to more fights, more duels, which among the little clicks, gained him a black rep.

  The richer he became, the more his investments and gambling paid off, the less he respected their rules and opinions—the more he set his own. There was not a lord or lady of rank, eventually, who would insult him to his face. He knew everything about them, and their sons, their daughters, their wives. He showed up at balls, at musicals, at theaters, the more the gossip rags reported. And, the louder the whispers of their petty revenge. He showed up, to remind them that he was not going away—and his title, his blood, eventually his wealth, surpassed some of their own.

  In the off seasons, when he traveled, Spain, Rome, Paris, further, the hells and bordellos, palaces and mansions, the wealthy gamblers—all had the same weaknesses. Some lost and sought to kill him. Others, sent their thugs, like many in London. Others still, craved the challenge of besting him, and cheated. Or, paid other gamblers and houses to do so. Rotherham never took that lightly.

  Trevon’s sherry eyes moved over the outside view whilst he remembered the day Rane had talked him into taking a bride. It was raining, chilly out. They had been to London only long enough to bed a woman, see to their business, and buy a breeding stud he had known would be auctioned at Tatters.

  Trevon never kept a mistress full time, however most knew where the Cyprians could be had. He never spent more time than it took to pay generously, unlatch his trousers, don a French letter, and spill his seed. He did not smell them, look at them, or touch them beyond the necessary. Even in the more decadent bordellos of Paris, he sometimes observed himself in a detached way. Over the years, when he could not control that urge to be inside a woman’s body, he still couldn’t feel them in any (senses) way.

  Rane was something of the opposite—a man who took his time, and spent time with the women. He had never commented, though a look passed between them upon leaving those establishments. Trevon was usually gambling, or nursing a drink, when Rane emerged from some silken chamber.

  That day, however, as they sat in the study, listening to the thunder and a deluge from the storm, he had not sneered at the letter from Mary.

  Rene had said, “You may as well take a wife, my friend. You go all the way to London, to spend less than half-hour with someone you cannot recall ten minutes later. No matter where it is, as long as I have known you, it is the same. As least, if you take a wife—and it is time you did—despite your aversion to the rules of our class, you may finally see that not every woman is Imogene. I know you will never seek one among the ton we so thinly tolerate.”

  Trevon had said darkly in reply, “You brave much mentioning that name to me, and testing our friendship. But since you have thrown it out there, let us be clear on one thing, I am under no illusion that a wife would change me, my life, or the reasons I live it to suit myself.”

  The Viscount had countered quietly, “How do you know that, Trevon? How do you? How many more years are you going to chase what you already have, or prove what no longer needs proving. What is the point of achieving anything to satisfaction, if at no point, you truly enjoy it?”

  “I don’t want a bloody wife,” he had snarled and slammed down his glass.

  “This woman, yes the letter rambles, but either one may be more than this daft mother claims. She mentions the bloodlines, that she was trained and has good breeding. Though, we can read between the lines, and see there is something more. It is worth looking into.”

  Rane had stood, and hands in his pockets, stared out at the storm. “I beg you, my friend, consider it. Isn’t there a circumstance in which you would find it agreeable? You are going to get yourself killed—or worse, deprive yourself of anything normal because of… Dammit, Rotherham, you’ve let her color your life for too bloody long!”

  Moments passed before he’d said, “Whoever enters my life, and takes my name, all that is with it, must understand my rules. If you discover something that sways me, and if, I go so far as to wed her, you can bloody well believe that her loyalty will be required above all else.”

  Those tawny eyes turned to him. “I understand that. I do, my friend.”

  He reckoned that Rane did understand, in some ways. But not all. He’d shrugged, however, and muttered, “Put your spying skills to use, and perhaps this conversation will be relevant.”

  It had become so. And, Rane had gone with him— he suspected, fearing he would not go through with it. However, by then, Trevon had a set plan, a method of operation, and formed a calculated goal. He saw the advantages. He saw the means of clearing Rane’s perception of his intimate life. Although, only he, had the personal feelings and motives behind his limits.

  What surprised him about the woman, he otherwise had a complete satisfaction with, was her humor, her passion, her way of regarding him with those direct green eyes that were full of questions. She fulfilled, thus far, whatever he expected, but the additional and unexpected reactions to her were something he struggled through.

  Rotherham did not like to over think, to gamble beyond games of chance, or to have his boundaries challenged, and his rules blurred. He did not like it that Alina was becoming less and less an objective—and more a woman. A unique woman.

  Today, he paced absently while he smoked a cheroot, just outside the study, whilst awaiting Rane’s return from Berkshire. He had ridden after breakfast and still wore his buff trousers and boots, a linen shirt, with sleeves rolled up. He had consumed too much brandy the past few nights, thus Trev
on had only coffee today, although his head was pounding.

  Raking a hand through the long, unevenly layered hair, he reflected, that he had not attempted to talk Rane out of visiting the bastard who raped Audra. He would have sought him out himself, had Rane not formed a plan beforehand. The Viscount was going to draw the man out privately, and introduce himself as her fiancée. Whatever happened, Rotherham was sure the outcome would be with the sonofabitch a long time—to remind him, if he was ever tempted to abuse a female again.

  * * * *

  Trevon was behind the desk when the door opened and Rane entered, freshly bathed, and dressed in brown and buff. His hand was bandaged.

  The Viscount lowered himself into a chair before the desk, and met Rotherham’s eyes with a gaze they both understood.

  “Are you all right?” Trevon glanced at the bandage.

  “Broke two fingers.” Rane nodded and leaned up to pour a drink with his good hand.

  “Buckland?”

  “A broken face, and not too much of a cock. Had he not ran and made me pursue him—running, until he fell over, into a stream, I might have killed him, just to save myself the bother. However, he understood perfectly whom I meant—and what I knew. He so enraged me, attempting to imply she had seduced him…I will tell you, Rotherham, he is all of six feet and five, nearly 500 pounds, and has that sly, soft, demeanor, that reminds one of a snake…”

  Rane knocked back the drink and shuddered, setting the glass down before muttering grimly, “I gave him my address and told him I expected a full and truthful confession when he can write again, or I would be back. And, next time, I will kill him.”

  Rotherham sat back, watching a nerve tic in Rane’s cheek. “Is there something I don’t know?”

  In low, tense, tones, Rane relayed the conversation with Audra in the library. When he was done, Rotherham said, “I would have—killed him.”

  “I know.” Rane stared at him. “Nevertheless, it would bring an inquest, and I don’t want her to give that bastard another moment of her life.”

  Studying him as he poured another half glass, Trevon intoned, “You’ve chosen a difficult attraction this time.”

  “I didn’t choose. it just happened.” Rane shrugged. “I can’t fight it, although I have no bloody idea how to gain her trust in the manner I need to. We cannot progress to any point, unless…And if I miss step…It’s bloody well not something I’ve so much as thought of before.”

  “I can’t advise you.”

  Rane stared at him. “Why not? You both share that inability to trust. What would make you trust Alina?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do.” His friend smiled dryly. “But I won’t press you on it.”

  He arose and went to the French doors, thanking Rotherham when he offered him a cheroot, and lit it.

  Trevon walked out as well, watching the sky become overcast and wondering if the ladies were out or somewhere on the grounds.

  “We’re up to London, next week?”

  “Yes.” Trevon watched a bird hopping across the lawn. “We’ll thankfully miss the opening balls. Still, the theater will be just as well. I will have the horses sent up. The town house is being opened. I’m taking several of the footmen with me, to be around, if our engagements do not coincide.”

  “Wise. I have not finished restoring the house I bought there. I suppose that will be completed this trip.”

  Rotherham eyed him. “Planning that far ahead?”

  “Yes.” Rane did not deny it. “I don’t want a mistress, Rotherham; I don’t want a dancer for the night, or some tart to spend myself in. I want only one woman. And mock if you like, but she scares the bloody hell out of me.”

  He drew on the cigar and muttered, “I’ve never used that term in my life. Fear…Not during my service, and not before—when I was bloody abandoned by Rhys whilst he went off on his crusade.”

  “He would have taken you—”

  “—No thank you. I have no quarrel with his cause. I believe in it. But he cannot even feed himself, doesn’t care what he puts on—and was obsessed to the point he drained not only his fortune—but mine as well. I’m fortunate the estate house and what acreage I do have, escaped, before he sailed off to political glory.”

  “Yes. I remember him as being oblivious to everything.”

  After a time, Rane crushed the cheroot. They strolled casually around the main estate ground, speaking mostly of London, politics, and the death of a few famous personages.

  When they had arrived in the back courtyard, both paused and leaned against the base of a long pond, stocked with fish. A few yards away, Alina was posing in the get up Trevon had purchased for her in Paris: leather trousers, thigh-high boots, a rough shirt of belled sleeved ruffled linen, and a cocked hat. Audra was walking around her, sketching. They were jesting and laughing. Audra kept nudging her to keep her pose—one of having a hand over her head, arched, as if in the process of doing a sweeping bow. Her legs were cocked amusingly with the square toes of the boots turned outward. Audra wore an India cotton gown, with ribbon straps that revealed little under it when the clouds moved, aside from a light chemise. Her hair was piled atop her head, the long strands escaping the pins, as if she had been out of doors a long time.

  The observing men went unnoticed. Snippets of the amusing conversation carried to them—laughter and snorts, a few groans from Alina, who swore her buttocks were getting cramps from the half squat.

  “Do you think she was really a spy?” they heard Audra muse aloud, as she glanced from Alina to the pad and worked her charcoal in flowing lines.

  “I do. I believe the rumors that females served with Nelson. I doubt it began then. I remember an elder woman in Berkshire, who swore her mother was a buccaneer and spy. Women are just as brave, just as capable, I think.”

  “I agree. Have you ever imagined how it would have been so much easier had Mother simply lived a widow’s life and had an affair with some respectable gent?”

  “Yes. Often. But we must face the fact that she has tastes, and addictions, we cannot understand. Perhaps papa knew that.”

  “He was ever so quiet. So reluctant, to go about. Likely, he knew things that shamed him and could not face others.”

  “Terribly sad but I shan’t forget him. He was so very good to us. Remember how we did plays for him, and sang those silly songs you’d written?”

  “Yes. And I remember him getting you that pup, which mother hated.”

  “Poor little thing. It ran off one day. Just—ran off.”

  “We hope.”

  “I shall believe nothing else.”

  Audra finished and showed the sketch to her sister. They laughed quite open and uninhibited for several moments.

  Alina removed the hat and ran a hand through her hair. Somewhat swaggering in her walk to a bench and poured lemonade, she tossed the hat on the bench while Audra did other sketches of her.

  At one point, Alina commented, “I like these breeches. The boots are a bit hot. Still, I wonder if Rotherham would object to my owning a pair of trousers—to wear privately, of course.”

  “Mrs. Kearny wore them. Do you remember? Audra said.

  “She ran a tavern, and had four smuggling sons.”

  “Yes, well…” Audra chuckled. “As to Rotherham, I don’t know. You certainly know him better than I. But given his exquisite taste in fashion, perhaps if you did not tell him, but have them made up—”

  “No. No, I would never do that. Even something that small. I wouldn’t lie to him about.”

  Rotherham could feel it when Rane turned to look at him. However, he was listening to the ladies.

  Audra said, “Whatever is the matter, Alina? It was only a jest.”

  “I’m sorry. Of course, it is a normal suggestion. It is just that… I know his views on betrayal, and I do not know what falls under that. Yet, since I feel as if I am being tested somehow, beginning to earn his trust, I don’t want to miss- step.”

  “I ra
ther understand that.” Audra paused holding the charcoal still. “Not trusting. It is not about you personally, Alina. It is—. Well, 'tis more like walking in the ocean. A wave knocks you down. You know it is full of them, and you either learn at some point to resist, stand firm—or you keep running for the beach, and never go further in. It’s something more—something stuns you, and suddenly you realize how easily your balance, your life, can be forever changed—your foundation is forever shifted.”

  “Oh, Audra.”

  “No.” The young woman laughed. “Don’t run over here, and coddle me. I am learning to stand more firmly—every day.”

  Glancing at Rane, Rotherham nodded and they turned, walking back to the study.

  Trevon suggested when they were inside, “It’s a good day for that weapons lesson you were going to talk her into.”

  Rane nodded. “I was thinking the same.”

  Rotherham waved his hand toward his collection of daggers, swords, and pistols. “Help yourself. I think I will take Alina out for the same. I have a smaller set in my chambers. We will ride to the park. You will likely do better in that woodland clearing. I’ve a feeling Lady Audra would be more comfortable where no staff or anyone, could see her.”

  They parted ways. Rotherham left to go above and collect a set of pistols and shot—a ladies’ dagger he had tossed in a trunk among other odd things he had won at the card tables. It was a short jade-handled beauty, meant to fit into a garter.

  He slid on a light thigh-length jacket and fetched Alina’s riding boots. Stopping in the study, to find Rane already gone, and to jot a note he handed to the footman to send to his London tailor, afterwards, he walked out back to find Rane standing and chatting with Alina.

  “Audra’s gone to change.” His wife glanced at him.

  He handed her the boots. “These might be more comfortable.”

  She eyed him, and then sat on a bench, taking off her long costume boots. Rotherham found himself eyeing her slender feet, bare of hose, the trim ankle. He noted the trousers and ties crisscrossed at the calf hem. He looked away as she pulled on the boots, rather too interested in how she spread her knees to do so.